


Shining Black

by SkyEventide



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Blacksmithing, Brother Feels, Complicated Relationships, Deconstructing LaCE, Dwarves, Foreshadowing, Gen, Hate Sex, M/M, Magic in the First Age, Snark, Trade in First Age Beleriand - Freeform, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:27:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27071971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkyEventide/pseuds/SkyEventide
Summary: The forest of Nan Elmoth is warded by magic and, apparently, inhabited. Celegorm and Curufin head into the woods, discovering who exactly lives in it. A "dark elf", who is a blacksmith. And is friends of the dwarves, and speaks Khuzdul. Curufin camps outside of the forest, to check that trade with the dwarves isn't disrupted by the encounter -- and to see if perhaps he could learn more about the enchantments that protect this land, and about its dweller.
Relationships: Celegorm | Turcafinwë & Curufin | Curufinwë, Curufin | Curufinwë & Telchar, Curufin | Curufinwë/Eöl
Comments: 16
Kudos: 24
Collections: Innumerable Stars 2020





	Shining Black

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Alkarinque](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alkarinque/gifts).



> This fic was written for Innumerable Stars 2020. I had a blast writing it. 
> 
> Before I leave you to the story, I'll make a few language notes. Wouldn't be a Tolkien fic without, right?
> 
> 1• I use Curufinwë to refer to Curufin throughout, because he thinks in Quenya, but most call him Lord Curufin in speech, as they are usually speaking Sindarin (or Khuzdul). Occasionally he signs himself as Curvo, his familial nickname.  
> 2• I refer to Celegorm as Turco a couple of times, as a familial nickname, otherwise as Tyelkormo. All Quenya names use the c spelling except for Tyelkormo, just cuz I think Tyelcormo looks a little ugly. I refer to Caranthir as Carnistir or Moryo, and to Finrod as Findaráto. Likewise, Pityafinwë is the older Ambarussa twin and Telvo is the younger twin.  
> 3• It being Curufin's POV means the Shibboleth is in place when he speaks or thinks in Quenya. That turns "Sindar/in" into "Thindar/in" and "Singollo" into "Thingollo" (that'd be Thingol, in Quenya).  
> 4• Tumunzahar/Návarot is Nogrod, the dwarven city.  
> 5• I spent way too long tryna decide whether to spell Celebrimbor's Quenya name as Tyelperinquar or Telperinquar, then opted for the latter for reasons I won't get into here cuz too long, but like, I thought about it a lot.  
> 6• In one instance I mention the Belain: these are the Valar, in Sindarin. In similar venue, Moringotho is Morgoth, in Quenya.  
> 7• Curufin mentions daddy as Faenor instead of Fëanor. Faenor is the "right" version of Fëanor's Sindarin name, while the name we normally and most often use is an in-universe copyist/loremasters mistake. I decided to stay true to how Curufin would very likely call him instead, so Faenor it was.  
> 8• Thou/thee is an informal pronoun generally used for close family or for people of inferior rank; the momentary switch to this form in the text is reeeal deliberate lol.  
> 9• Naming dwarves was a struggle, but I picked Neo Khuzdul words and rules in one instance (idk I hope I didn't butcher the construct) and Norse names in other two, following Tolkien's back and forth choices on the matter.
> 
> And that's it! I hope it heps with clarifying any potential name confusions or perplexities for anyone not well-versed with various languages.

***

When Curufinwë’s servants had returned from the forests of the southeast, they did so with a discomfort sitting heavy on their brow, and Curufinwë had seen in his mind’s eye that they were burdened by tree crowns and undergrowth so thick and dark it had muddled their steps. The forest had first swallowed them and then spat them out by the banks of the River Celon, making mockery of their skill as hunters and scouts. They had returned nigh empty-handed, the maps they had set out to draw yet blank.

Tyelkormo, then, had risen from his seat with a frown of his own. « Did you touch the borders of the Iathrim’s kingdom? »

« Nay, my lord, we never forded the Aros. »

So Curufinwë had looked at his brother and had resolved that they would go themselves and bring Huan as their guide.

***

The people of Beleriand call these woods, growing tall and dark beyond the Celon, the forest of star-dusk.

« It was not wrongly named », Tyelkormo comments, jumping from his horse, feet on the ground. « I’ll go by foot. »

The hound at his side, Tyelkormo leaves the reins to his servant and walks ahead on the uneven ground. It is a good thing indeed that these horses, though shorter and lither than their Amanyar cousins, have been bred for this and not to be ridden on the battlefield.

The hooves of Curufinwë’s mount find balance among high and contorted roots, through thick bushes and brambles. The trees have grown tall, a canopy to block out sunlight, and paths turn treacherous and hard to follow in the perpetual dusk. Yet he finds that bringing Huan along saved them much trouble: even as Tyelkormo marks the way, kneeling over the moss, it is the dog that often barks to correct their course.

It becomes soon clear that an enchantment lies upon the woods, but of weaker nature than the girdle surrounding Doriath.

Curufinwë is reminded of the fields of asphodels that blanket the grounds of Lórien while the trees soar higher and higher, their white trunks as columns for the vault of the sky, and the clearing of forget-me-nots, the sleeping body on a slab of stone.

There is no sleeping hróa cocooned in these woods.

His brother’s call cuts through his thoughts before he can hear Huan’s bark, somewhere ahead on the path; he spurs the horse forward, leaving the party behind between their gasped protests.

Tyelkormo stands with his right hand on the rough bark of a tree, his left buried in the fur of his hound, just at the base of Huan’s neck as if holding him from a charge, and ahead of him a Quendë leans against another trunk, his arms crossed, his boots planted on a wide arched root, lichens clinging to it like oxidation on old tarnished bronze.

He is dark of hair and dark of clothes, the buckles of his belt and scabbard gleaming in the night of Nan Elmoth.

« Welcome, strangers », he says, making it certain that they feel anything but.

Curufinwë lifts his chin and smiles.

« Who », the Quendë continues, « treads into my dwelling? »

The rest of the scouting party approaches at his back, doing no favours to the man’s scowl.

« The Lords of Himlad », Curufinwë answers. « My brother who stands before you, Turcafinwë Tyelkormo, and myself, Curufinwë Atarincë, Princes of the Ñoldor. » Thus said, he caresses the horse’s mane once before gripping it to dismount. « Though perhaps as of late the folks of Beleriand are becoming accustomed to calling us Lord Celegorm and Lord Curufin. »

There a spark of recognition in the Quendë’s dark eyes. « The _Lords_ of Himlad », he repeats, as if the word sat oddly on his tongue. « Princelings of the line of Finwë, no less. Last I saw him, the Tatyar were already calling him king. »

« Will we have the privilege of learning your name also? », Curufinwë asks, a thorn of displeasure at the easy mention of his grandfather and of the questions that might follow, even if every elf in Beleriand should by now have learnt the story of what transpired. The thorn is lodged into him, at times nudged by others’ carelessness, and digging its way a little deeper in his flesh.

« Ah, yes, where are my manners », the man says, pushing his shoulder away from the trunk and walking on the large root. He hints a mockery of a bow. « Eöl, _Lord_ of Nan Elmoth. »

The Thindar of the north have no lords; they call Thingol their sovereign, though not without reluctance since the moment they have been denied access to his hidden kingdom; but they do not disavow him, and thus they group under the lords and ladies of the Ñoldor without crowning leaders of their own. Strange indeed, then, that this sharp-eyed man with a name that means naught in any of the languages he knows – and he certainly knows many – should call himself one.

« Where is your following, Lord Eöl? »

Instead of answering, his lips pressing down in a micro-expression, Eöl turns to Tyelkormo. « What about your brother? Does he not have a tongue? »

But Turco laughs, wolfish in his grin, the sound rippling rich but dissonant like grinding glass. « Oh, I am talking. Just not with you. »

A movement of his hand in Huan’s fur draws the Quendë’s eyes downwards. He smiles slowly. « The hound led you », he states, realisation thick in his tone.

« Perhaps. We were commenting that you do not smell of moss and mildew, but vaguely of coal. And that armour that glints under your cloak does not look dwarven-made, if my half-trained eye does not beguile me. » Tyelkormo tilts his head slight backwards. « _Is_ it dwarven craft, Curvo? »

« It is not. »

Eöl withstands the scrutiny well, his stance unflinching. He turns his attention to Curufinwë, as if to repay the inspection well in kind, first eyes into eyes, then a sweeping look at his horse and chainmail, but it’s at Curufinwë’s waist that the man’s gaze sticks, the never-sheathed dark blade hanging from his belt.

Curufinwë watches his demeanour change, vexed indulgence turning to keen attention.

« Speaking of dwarven-made, Lord Curufin, the knife you bear is such. That is the hand of Telchar of Tumunzahar. »

« So you are familiar with his craft. » And of course, one of the trade roads that from the mountains comes into Beleriand, after winding through Thargelion, skirts the edges of these woods.

But Eöl scoffs. « I _know_ Telchar, Lord Curufin. »

« Ah. Impressive. »

« Indeed. »

« So do I. »

« I doubt it. »

« _The knife_ », Curufinwë says, and when he speaks it is neither in Quenya nor in Thindarin, nor in any other dialect of the Eldar, but in the sharp and clean sounds of Khuzdûl, « _is Angrist and it_ _is a gift of Telchar, apprentice of Gamil Zirak, to me._ »

Silence follows, and it is true silence; few birds sing here, few beasts lurk in the brushwood, and the scouts and cartographers have halted behind him; even his brother is silent as Eöl evaluates, rearranges his assumptions.

His eyes narrow. « He would not be glad », he says eventually, « to learn that you used his language in front of so many. »

« None other speaks it here but me. And you, I presume. None other will ever hear it from me again. » None living, at the very least. « But now you know my word is true. »

Eöl’s eyes fly past him, to his following and the blue glow of the lamps they carry. « What _is_ your reason to come here? », he asks, stirring the conversation away from dwarves.

« Mapping the land, Lord Eöl. The forest lies between my domain and that of my younger brothers who rule in Estolad. A blind spot between us, if you will. »

Eöl grimaces, a muscle jumps in his jaw. « This is my house, my land. Granted to me by Elu Thingol under payment of the greatest of my blades other than the one I carry, from which I very dearly and bitterly parted. It is mine, and there will be no mapping of Nan Elmoth. »

Curufinwë knows that his brother is looking at him; he knows it well, even if his eyes remain on the dark-clad elf on the high root. The look from Tyelkormo irritates him like the one of the stranger never could. Whatever he wonders, whatever opinion he holds, Curufinwë will not know: he shuts his minds closed like a vault.

« So be it », he says, his voice snapping through the heavy air under the trees. « There shall be no interference from us as long as you do not interfere with our trade with the Blue Mountains. »

« I would never offend the Khazâd thusly. »

« It is settled, then. We shall leave. »

Eöl smiles in a way that curls his nose at the sides also. « Please do. »

***

Curufinwë leaves the forest in a darker mood than he entered it.

The field encampment they had left in the cold plain on their side of the Celon greets him with the ruby-red waving flag of their standard.

Biting breeze whispers through the flaps of his tent, and when his brother whispers against his walled mind Curufinwë could almost mistake it for a gust of the wind. Swiftly, the hidden tension of his limbs trembles and bursts forth, breaking his immobility. A sharp exhale, a jerky movement of his torso.

« What _is_ it, Turco? »

« That is for you to tell me », Tyelkormo, who is sitting and sharpening the heads of his arrows, answers. « You know that if you had wished to press him about letting us pass, we could have done so, do you not? We outnumbered him by far. »

His roused tension shudders through his hands, his jaw, into his teeth, which he grinds. His eyes flare. « Do you not think that, had I wished to press him, I would have simply _done_ so? I do not care about the forest. We shall message Pityo and Telvo about who dwells there and that will be it. »

Tyelkormo falls silent for a long enough moment to wonder if it was his words or his glare that gave him pause. Then, a snap of his hand.

« So what _is_ it, Curvo? »

« He paid his land with a sword of his making, one he gave to Elwë Thingollo. » Thus his guarded thoughts break open with a spark. « Did Findaráto did the same, I wonder? Buy his cave dwelling with the many gems and jewels he brought from home? Very daring indeed that they call _us_ hoarders. Would we be granted our own little forest if we gifted him with the finest rings and crowns he has ever laid his eyes upon? »

« I daresay that is unlikely. We rather gutted his brother’s people. » Tyelkormo’s chuckle edges on the callous. « That happened. »

Curufinwë speaks through his teeth. « Asking for one’s greatest craft as boon or tithe is only acceptable when others do it, apparently. »

His brother pauses with unwonted carefulness. He is only ever careful when the dam of Curufinwë’s anger breaks. « I am only saying, Curvo, that strange Avari in the woods are no grounds to deduce the foreign policies of the Thinda king with our cousins. But I am guessing this is not about Findaráto, so… »

He leans back against the chair, the tilt of his head scornful. « Oh. You are a politician, now. That is a novelty. »

Tyelkormo’s mouth opens, the hurt ripples from him mingled with irritation, a soreness of the mind, and Curufinwë knows his brother is thinking of their father in ways he cannot pinpoint or put into words.

He watches him rise from his seat, the arrow clutched in his hand.

« Very well, Atarincë. You will not drag me into this now. »

« Storming off? »

« I shall hunt us dinner, you may thank me later. »

Curufinwë watches him march out of the tent, the silvery glint of his braid disappearing last; march, or perhaps flee; but whichever the truth, he is left with little pleasure and the echo of a name he does not want to hear. He waits in silence for his outburst of emotions to dull and retreat.

Bring it all back inside, melt it, mould it, beat it to a cold and pointy end.

***

In the morn, Curufinwë had composed a message for his twin brothers and had put it in the hands of a mounted messenger, preferring his own followers to the use of birds and other carriers. He had resolved, also, that he would stay behind for a few weeks, and make certain that their entrance into Nan Elmoth would not disrupt trade.

If Tyelkormo had had an opinion on the matter, he had not voiced it.

They had parted in better spirits than the evening had left them with, for they are not, and never were, the sort of brothers who carry a grudge against each other for long, even as the silence of missing apologies stretches on.

And Curufinwë had not apologised.

***

It was said, when they first arrived in these lands, that the Khazâd did not have women among them. It is, naturally, chiefly untrue, as Curufinwë found out when he first met them in person and spent many an evening in their company.

The dwarf who carries several cheese wheels made of goat milk southwards, to Estolad and Ossiriand, is herself a woman, though Curufinwë could not tell from looks alone.

She asks, as they walk together down the road, flanking her pony on either side, if he is the Dark Elf.

Curufinwë blinks. « I am certain I have been called many things by my fair cousins, but that is new indeed. Unless you think of my brother, but he dwells in Thargelion. »

She studies him through thick eyelashes. « So maybe not. Which one are you? »

He envies her, for a moment, the blissful ignorance of someone who only cares about her cheese wheels. « Lord Curufin son of Faenor. »

« I thought you might be. »

But though the odd mistake of identity is clarified for the rest of the road, Curufinwë thinks on it again as he follows it backwards again, towards the forest. He takes a hold of the reins of his horse and leads the animal towards the first trees, the trunks jutting out from thick brambles, never losing the sight of the river. Even in clear view of familiar paths, he knows the forest as something upon which a great enchantment was laid.

He skirts the edges for long hours, tracing a wave between the outer trees as would a stream, eager to finds its way back to the Celon and pour into its waters.

It is then that he chances upon Eöl again, he suspects by design of the elf himself.

« So you did not leave », says the lord of Nan Elmoth. « I wonder greatly why I am called diffident and wary when facts always tend to prove me right. »

The Dark Elf – for he must be the one the cheese merchant meant – appears not quite as dark in the sunlight; but his armour no longer shines quite like steel.

« Do come out of the bushes, Lord Eöl », he answers as he guides his horse with slow steps. « My brother is gone to Aglon, it is but me strolling in the sun. Surely it cannot be called your home yet if I still see her rays. »

Eöl moves through the bramble, its thorns sliding on the jet black of his armour without harm or scratch; he walks along, in and out of view, behind the trunks and the leaves, then again in patches of light. « Oh », he drawls, « the princeling bites. »

« This is but friendly conversation. »

The Avar laughs, a strident sound that nonetheless seems to Curufinwë full of amusement. « Finwë taught you no manners, Lord Curufin. »

Curufinwë’s mouth twitches ever so slightly, for his grandfather could have done with less manners and more of an unambiguous stance when taking one still mattered, rather than only speaking, only choosing, when backed into a corner; but that is an unfair thought towards one who died – ultimately, one he and his brothers could not save. « You speak very familiarly of him. »

« I knew Finwë before he returned with the Rider from the west, proud and flame-eyed as you are. I did not call him king then, I will not do so now either. »

« Good thing indeed that he is not here to ask you to. » Curufinwë halts next to his horse.

The Thindar called them lachend for the brilliance of their eyes, where the lost lights of Valinor still shone as if in remembrance, an afterimage branded into their pupils; but Curufinwë is uncertain that the Avar sees the trees of Aman in him the same way he saw them in his grandfather. Surely, he does not.

Eöl also halts in his walk, studying him sharp-eyed. « Indeed, I had heard of his death. So it was the truth. Whom shall I thank for bringing you lot back to this side of the world? »

« My father. » Curufinwë clenches his jaw as he grabs his horse’s mane and steadies his hand against its back; with a push of his hips, he flings himself astride of the animal, looking askance to the man in the patch of shadow. « I shall leave you to your patio, Lord Eöl. »

The Avar gapes. « My _patio_? »

Curufinwë gestures at the trees, where they thicken farther ahead, his heels digging gently into the horse’s sides. « Or perhaps the northern side is the back door? Either way. »

Eöl sneers. « So speaking of your family stings? »

He could not possibly know how much.

***

_Turco,_

_Trade proceeds unbothered. I am scouting the edges of Nan Elmoth to reveal the secrets of its magic, which could prove useful in our efforts against Moringotho, should we master it and use it for mountain peaks and passes. Do not bother reminding me not to enter the forest on my own, I have little interest in the risk. The Avar, whom I discovered they call the Dark Elf for his friendship with the dwarves, and potentially because of his attire, has not been hostile. At least, not actively._

_Give me news of Telperinquar instead._

_Curvo_

***

Though Curufinwë oft returns to the wood’s edges, Eöl is not always there to meet him; it is only after the third of his visits that they cross paths again.

However tightly clutched to himself he keeps his thoughts, his mind as a vault, Curufinwë’s hearing is keen enough to know the sound of steps following him, and then walking ahead in the thick foliage at his right. It is not long after that the click of a tongue draws his sight to the moss-blanketed trunks: there stands Eöl, looking at him, a shadow on his brow.

Curufinwë says nothing; but neither does the lord of Nan Elmoth, and so they spend many breaths locked eyes to eyes.

Neither lowers his gaze, so Curufinwë speaks: « The power that lies upon your land, alike and yet weaker than the girdle of Doriath – I wonder about its nature. »

Eöl smiles slowly, with dark satisfaction. « Might it be that you are trying to pierce it, Lord Curufin? »

« Nay. To replicate it. »

« Ahh. Yet you cannot weave this magic on the open plains or upon the high peaks, where all you have as threads are the wind and stark rocks. »

Curufinwë sinks his hand in the horse’s mane; his grandmother was said to be so dexterous that she could embroider with spidersilk. « I can weave light itself, if I so desire. »

Interest sparks in the Avar’s eyes. « Yea, I saw your lamps. But the fields and the mountain passes will not grow to follow the courteous twists of your voice. »

So it is song and words, as he should have suspected. Perhaps neither Quenya nor any of the languages of these lands could bend paths carved in stone quite so thoroughly as they can guide roots and branches, by their nature more nimble, yet if he dared speak the language of the Valar… but he never learnt it beyond the names of the Powers. His father could, and even he harshly coughed soon after, the sounds turning his throat raw, straining its chords.

He wishes he had tried harder.

« How old is this magic? I have not heard of it before – not used for these purposes. »

« Of course you have not. What use did your folk have for the protections of the old nights, when we were called Tatyar, and Nelyar, and Minyar, and unknown, foul things crawled in the darkness? The old servants of the Enemy when neither he nor them had a name. Things lurking in the undergrowth to snatch us away, when the stars lay covered and one’s sole escape were paths confounded and hidden glades into deep groves? »

Curufinwë blinks. The air clears, the trunks straighten as if pulled away from an illusion.

When he next looks at Eöl, the Avar is smiling with sharp eyes.

His jaw clenches, anger mounting to his eyes before he can press it down again, fold it back onto itself, like the metal of a sword. « You were doing it just now. »

A small snort leaves Eöl’s nose. « Indeed, princeling. Just now. »

« Enough with calling me that, Moriquendë. »

Though Eöl opens his mouth to speak again, the distant sound of a cart squeaking on the road skirting the edges of the forest silences him, and Curufinwë also. It squeaks closer, and closer, until the cheese seller comes in sight, her wares all sold away, replaced with crates.

The dwarf pauses as she spots them, her eyes moving from one to the other and squinting at last. She points her finger at them.

« So _you_ are Eöl », she says, in Khuzdul.

He, too, blinks. « That would be me, yes. »

« Nice. Goodbye, my lords. »

With that, she draws her pony forward, unbothered. Curufinwë watches her walk away. « Goodb—wait, lass, your name? »

« Khâgumraz! »

Cheese-keeper? Certainly an epithet, he considers as she goes. But as he glances askance towards the Avar, he finds himself less outraged, not least for the baffled look that has seized Eöl’s face, an arm still laying half hidden against the mouldy trunk.

Curufinwë snorts, shaking his head, and with resolute step moves his horse towards the light.

***

_Brother,_

_We received your message about the dweller of Nan Elmoth. His presence is duly noted, but we will not be coming north in the foreseeable future. Telvo has taken a liking to the Laiquendi’s custom of farming mushrooms, so we are spending our days in Ossiriand._

_If we are needed north more swiftly than the days’ ride of your messenger, I urge you use the palantír._

_Pityafinwë_

***

In that time, the lands were still graced by relative peace. Thus Curufinwë had taken advantage of the blessing of safe roads and had left his camp in the steppe of Himlad, riding eastwards on the trade route, until he had reached Thargelion, where his brother had welcomed him.

They had gone hiking southwards the way they used to when climbing the Pelóri, then he had said Carnistir goodbye, to descend not down the mountain, rather inside it.

He had greeted the guards by the doors of stone and had announced in their tongue that he had come to visit Telchar of Tumunzahar.

***

« I’ve given thought to your idea. »

Telchar looks older; indeed, to Curufinwë all dwarves but the youngest look strangely ancient, by virtue of their beards, as if all of them reached the third stage of their life after having rushed through their youth and adulthood. But Telchar _is_ older now, the hair atop his head wispy and sparse, wrinkles on his face, and his gold-adorned beard turned white.

« Our spells hide doors and treasure », Telchar continues, « and they make metal strong and sharp or bright and polished. But to carve treacherous paths out of the mountains you would need to _have_ those paths first. For which you would also need many hammers and many voices to cast the magic. Unless you suppose to chisel away stone roads all by yourself. »

« I _do_ have all of my people stationed at the Pass of Aglon. »

« But they do not speak our tongue, now, do they? »

Curufinwë takes a breath and concedes the point with a movement of his hand.

Telchar’s knotty fingers trouble themselves with lighting a pipe. « Besides, you must not forget that the foul creatures who serve the Enemy have burrowed themselves into the Iron Mountains as great fat worms would. They shall not be deterred by rocky labyrinths – recall, in this, that you always fight them at disadvantage. »

« We shall see about that. »

The flame picks up in the pipe of bone, its orange glow shining gentle on the dwarf’s features. Telchar leans forward from his wooden chair and offers him the pipe, with intent in his dark eyes, under the proud brow. « Not for idle reasons did I gift you Angrist, Curufinwë. So I hope, with all my heart, to be proven wrong. »

The iron-cleaver sits at his hip, faithfully. In taking the pipe, Curufinwë turns it towards his mouth and draws the smoke, rich, earthy, strong; he had coughed, the first time, feeling a scorch in his lungs like a memory.

He touches the hilt of the dagger, a brief caress, as he gives the smoke back to the old craftsman. « And I do not have words enough in any of the languages I speak to truly express my gratitude for the gift. »

Telchar hums. « Speaking of something entirely different, did Eöl come here with you? »

Curufinwë blinks, pausing mid-movement. « —I beg your pardon? »

***

There are no true gardens under the mountain, but what the dwarves have is no less beautiful. For at times crystalline streams slide through the cracks of the rock and pool as glass and quicksilver in deep and shallow hollows alike. And at times, moss and mushrooms that only sprout in the darkest and most humid corners of the land find easy ground for growth in the caverns, and the ground becomes soft and green, dripping with water drops as if they were embroidered with quartz. Or true impure crystals are left alone like statues, shining under great carved vaults.

And the most beautiful of these mountain gardens is a great geode of amethyst, its pointed formations like a many-mirrored hall, the single lamp hanging from the ceiling reflecting off its many faces, a triumph of sparkles and violet lights.

It is not hard for Curufinwë to be pointed towards the only other elf currently in the city, and not hard to find him alone in the geode, his hair unbraided, his cloak discarded.

« I am starting to believe », he drawls, very slowly, « that you are following me. »

Eöl eyes him. « I could very well say the same. »

Curufinwë doesn’t dignify the accusation with a reply. « And no armour, I see. »

« Why should I wear armour here? I am among friends. »

Nonetheless, Eöl had donned black, the linen of his tunic too dull to reflect the geode’s colours, and in great contrast with the reds and oranges and whites of Curufinwë’s robe, embroidered with golden thread that draws the tangerines of Aman when the orchards of Yavanna still were a welcome sight. Greyed colours in the purple haze.

« At least so far », Eöl adds. They exchange a sharp glance. « Curious indeed, also, how you gained Telchar’s friendship so very quickly, and learned the language. I wonder, do they know what your father and your lot, and certainly yourself, did only so that you would no longer crawl at the Belain’s feet? I have done, of course, my due enquiries about my neighbours. »

Curufinwë’s hands, which held each other at his waist in loose touch, wrench their own grip. « Thou doth test thy luck and my patience. »

« My luck. In what, pray tell, _Lord_ Curufin? Though I know thou art a kinslayer », Eöl answers, pacing slowly as a dark stalking beast, he too dropping the politeness of formality, « I am surprised thou wouldst sully the blade that was gifted to thee by one of our hosts, in their very home. »

Though Curufinwë smiles, he does so with a heart full of bitterness. « I am bound by the laws of the Eldar in all matters but one, and no such fault lies with thee. »

« But thou hast given it thought », Eöl says, his voice dropping low and insinuating, as he steps closer – too close. « Taking thy weapon and driving it through me? I dare thee to deny. »

Curufinwë holds his gaze, his sour smile not leaving his face. Eyes into eyes again, until Eöl tilts his head.

« There are oaths in thy gaze, binding thee », he comments, more pensively.

« Oaths. A shocking turn of events. »

« Not thy father’s. Something else, in the flame of thy eyes. »

He knows not what the Dark Elf means until he thinks of his son and of more naïve days; then he knows, and remembers, and his smile fades to a shadow of unhealed disdain. « I am married in the eyes of the Allfather, vows were exchanged saying Ilúvatar’s name. »

So he must keep his mind closed and his thoughts clutched tightly, for he can feel how Eöl presses at the edges, perhaps changing the subject of his attention.

« Is that », he says, « how the Ñoldor marry each other nowadays? »

Curufinwë snorts, near soundless. « Opinions vary. »

Eöl takes a step that is not forward and is not to the side, a sinuous wave as that of his hair, falling forward from his shoulder as a curtain as his head tilts now the opposite way. « And _where_ is she? »

His jaw clenches. « We had no use for dead weights. »

Now, a step backwards, oddly tidal. « _My_. »

And how Is that of importance to the Moriquendë? Old stories of Cuiviénen told of elves who took each other as a spouse by exchanging gifts, and at times the gifts came before they had lain together, and at times after, but sometimes the gift never came at all and the companion of a winter was not the same at the next change of seasons. And though an open mind could see the traces of companionship in another’s, that was before they had begun to seal their marriage by speaking the name of the One. Words, then, could no longer be undone.

Thus a piece of him is with a woman whose name he no longer speaks – and a piece of him with the will of a father he will see no more.

As tightly as the clasp of his hands, Curufinwë masters his mind as he once mastered his craft. « Any more questions? »

« Nay, Lord Curufin, I am done. I will go seek my solitude somewhere else – I wonder if I shall find you there waiting. »

Curufinwë watches the black-clad figure turn and go, and though his clothes are not lustrous enough to catch the light of the geode, his hair is. He doesn’t ask himself if he would ever kill the man on a whim; he merely decides that he would not.

***

The house of Gamil Zirak, after the old master had died childless, had been given to his apprentice, Telchar, who had made teaching rooms out of the forges, had repurposed the bedrooms into wondrous cabinets to expose his teacher’s works, and had placed a long table in the large entrance hall. Under arches of stone, many of the great smiths and craftsmen of Tumunzahar often convened in banquet.

Eöl had been invited.

So had Curufinwë.

***

Ása has threads of gold woven into the braids of her dark beard and hair, a quirk of appearance that brings his Ñolofinwean cousin to mind. She has a twinkle in her eye when she lifts her cup to Eöl and speaks in a voice high enough to drown much of the chatter of the feast.

« Say, Eöl », she calls, « are you and the Ñoldo not friends? Here I believed you would seclude yourselves in conversation all evening and yet all you do is look occasionally sideways in each other’s general direction. »

Eöl grimaces, a look of bitter amusement on his face. « You, Ása, are a shit-stirrer. »

The dwarf cackles at the vulgarity, the sound jarring in strange reminder of Tyelkormo’s laughter. « I have made a mess and hope Telchar will forgive me. »

Telchar does not interrupt his conversation, though he does not spare her a forbidding look.

Yet Curufinwë but smiles. « You must not worry, Master Ása, I have sat at much tenser tables than this one, with many more guests whom I watched sideways. Tables that did not honour me half as much as Telchar’s does. » His eyes lift above their heads, where a chain is hooked to the sculpted ceiling, from which a lamp hangs. A blue flame radiating from a white crystal, caught in a fine net of polished silver. « Lord Eöl asked me very recently how I learnt the language. » His eyes, equally radiant, turn to the Dark Elf. « A secret for a secret, and lore for lore. »

After all, he had known Aulë also, whom the Khazâd called Mahal.

« Eöl », calls another of the jewel-wrights, Urtha, her hands adorned with many rings, « you have yet to give us any galvorn. »

« I have no more of it », he retorts, the snap of his voice that of one who has answered that enquiry before. « I made Anguirel, then I made Anglachel, and my own armour, and what I gave to Telchar was devised into Lord Curufin’s knife. »

Curufinwë turns.

« Ask _him_ », Eöl continues, his hands gesturing towards the head of the table and their old host, « if he yet keeps any. »

He does not carry Angrist tonight, left in his rooms to respect the peace of a banquet – but thought he had wondered what material and what spells had made it so black and sharp, the lack of lustre to its blade, the different craftmanship had made it appear so different from the shiny jet of Eöl’s armour, ever half hidden under his cloak, that he had not realised… indeed, he had not realised that he had been carrying Eöl’s creation all along.

« Is that how it is called? », he asks, his eyes moving from the other elf, to Ása and Urtha. « Galvorn? »

 _Shining black_.

Ása laughs again, the sound as that of the many knives moving against the bronze plates as they cut cured meat. « First it was rodeöl, was it not? »

 _The metal of Eöl_. The man in question rolls his eyes. « And then I considered glindûr, targlîn, morlîn. »

_Dark glint, noble glint, black pool._

« And maeglin. »

 _Sharp glance._ Curufinwë breathes in the cool air of the hall as the sound slides in him as adumbration.

« But yes, the name is galvorn, Lord Curufin. _Any more questions?_ »

Urtha clicks her tongue. « You hit him in what he is most jealous of, Lord. »

« Each of us », Curufinwë drawls with a perfected cadence, « is most jealous of the secrets of their own craft. »

Thus, another dwarf lifts a mug of strong dark beer, and so does Ása, and they agree that his words are well-spoken.

***

« I was not aware the material was of your own making. »

The winding staircase is cut out of a great block of basalt, rising from the great forges to enter a natural cave, from which the many roads of the Khazâd bring to their dwellings; his voice carries through the spiral, a booming echo. Eöl pauses on it and looks down, and sure as twilight his eyes drop to Curufinwë’s hip – but Angrist is not there tonight.

« Yea, Lord Curufin. »

His boots on each rocky step, Curufinwë catches up with the other elf, and Eöl waits until he is close to turn again and continue climbing.

« And you gave one of the swords to Elu Thingol. »

« To my great offense and dismay. »

« Whence does the metal come? »

« That, you will not know. »

Curufinwë watches the loose plait of black hair, on black clothes, that sways as Eöl climbs the stairs; locks unadorned but for a single silver thread. « So I imagine I shall study it more thoroughly myself and find out. »

Eöl’s look, his head turning once, the plait turning in a reeling arch about his waist, is quick yet meaningful. « Come », he says slowly, « follow me, Lord Curufin, to my dwelling here in the hollow mountain. »

***

Eöl places his hand on a high-backed chair, the intricacies of its carvings as a dialogue of geometries, and bends his shoulders, inviting Curufinwë to sit with the mockery of a bow. He takes the seat across the small table for himself, with leisure confidence, and offers no drink or food – but Curufinwë’s belly is full enough from the feast that he barely cares for the discourtesy.

« You will find no clues in the blade about its material », Eöl says. « You will find no galvorn, either, for the ore is gone. Not even your famed father could remake its likeness. »

Though the living room is scant in ornament, it is a lived space – a clothes hanger that is of Thindarin make, perhaps brought by Eöl himself, a shelf of hammers that must have been picked by him also. Curufinwë’s eyes move from these hammers to Eöl, his fingers curling around the chair’s armrest as if to brandish the tool by its handle, aiming the peen at a rod to cleave. « My father would have taken words from your mouth and fashioned them into a chain of breath. Enough with talking of him, unless you are attempting your very best to anger me. »

Eöl lifts his hands to his braid and slowly his nimble fingers begin undoing it, the fine silver thread disappearing in the black as he pulls it away. His lips open into a sharp grin. « I heard much of you and him. That you are similar. Yet I see very little of this fabled personality in you, Lord Curufin – I see you composed and stern, when you do not break into those smug little smiles. Where has the fire gone? I struggle with even drawing it from the embers. »

Curufinwë scoffs, the sound nigh inaudible. « Even those who knew him in life speak of him as a myth more than a man. What do they know? They did not live with him. And besides – one is moulded by grief in ways unexpected. But please, cut your own throat and perhaps you shall find him and make the comparison for yourself. »

« Not even the courtesy of wielding the sword. »

The silver ribbon lies on the table between them.

« We have been over that », Curufinwë answers.

« Have we. »

As Curufinwë turns to him in full, Eöl’s hand has moved across the table and is lingering in the air next to the jewel that ties his hair in a tight bun, a halo of golden spikes. And it occurs to Curufinwë in a spark of clarity that perhaps the Dark Elf was never being literal.

Or perhaps he was both, for in his attempts to keep his mind shuttered and guarded he has never tried to search into Eöl’s; thus, perhaps, his contempt is after all true.

Nonetheless, Curufinwë laughs. The sound bubbles out of him as sulphur out of water, and at once he catches Eöl’s wrist and wrings it away, but he reaches for his headpiece also, tugging it out of his hair, the bun undoing and falling as he stands.

« Is this your whole point, Moriquendë? Odd ways to go about it. »

And by the wrist he pulls Eöl to his feet.

The Dark Elf’s face is intent and stark. « I have points aplenty to make to the flame-eyed fiends who came to the lands where I once rode as if they were mine. This is merely one of the many. »

« But of course », Curufinwë answers with iron-like politeness.

Eöl’s free hand crawls to the layers of his clothing, his fingers hook at his collar and push under it, and Curufinwë feels calluses, a blacksmith’s hand, familiar as if they were his own.

Oaths in his eyes. So he shall break another of Valinor’s laws, be it in spite or in freedom, to the greater pleasure of his body and soul.

***

The covers on the bed of this secreted underground dwelling are of fine wool, warm to the touch.

So are Eöl’s thighs, intertwined with his, flesh to flesh and rubbing; and teeth to throat, tasting his sweat. Curufinwë had rarely lain in a bed like this before, fastening his mouth to his partner’s skin with animal-like desire, rolling on his back only to feel Eöl rock his hips down against him, and rolling on top to feel the grip of Eöl’s hand on his buttocks.

Though he finds that there is no winning this sort of duel, the struggle itself is a reward.

The covers are of fine wool, and soft enough that his knees do not hurt at all when he digs them into the mattress and Eöl at last buries himself in him, the weight of his torso against his loins, his shoulder blades. Buried in, yes, as the bar of red-hot metal is shoved under the smouldering coals till it turns white.

Eöl’s lips are to the shell of his ear. « Still so tightly closed », he says, « not in body but in thoughts. How—aggravating. »

But Curufinwë chuckles as he’s taken against the mattress: how bemusing indeed that his lover thought this would happen on any terms but his own.

Flares of pleasure the likeness of which he had forgotten rise from his groin, though Curufinwë doesn’t touch himself and neither does Eöl, one of his hands gripping Curufinwë’s hip, the other propping him up against the bed. And Eöl drives his prick into him until he pants as if after a very long run, until he is shaken by a great shudder.

The weight lifts from Curufinwë’s back, and suddenly he is empty, missing the stretch and the thrusts and how they nailed him down; left with, instead of fullness, a slippering warmth between his legs.

Eöl sits on the edge of the bed, his hair spread on his curved back, slick with sweat, his face unseen.

Curufinwë, with a pleasant soreness, moves about the bed and joins him, his feet on the floor, his toes curling against the cold stone. Soon he touches his lover’s shoulder and slides his slender fingers into the thick black hair; by the shoulder and by the locks, he tugs Eöl down and suddenly brings him low on his knees.

« End what you started, Lord Eöl. And you ought to lick away the mess you made of me. »

Eöl’s eyes are dark in colour and dark in mood, and darker still from pleasure struggling with defiance. But the game goes both ways, and Curufinwë shall have it played.

Soon he is in Eöl’s mouth, warm and wet. At last his tongue does something that does not flagellate his nerves; on the contrary, Curufinwë’s head lolls backwards in abandon, his eyes close as for a night he lets go of the shattered pieces of forsaken customs while searching for the back of Eöl’s throat.

His hips jerk forward, his hand still gripping the black hair.

***

Curufinwë does not sleep in that room and shares not Eöl’s bed until morning.

He stands naked, instead gathering his clothing and donning them with comfortable and meticulous slowness, while his one-night lover has wrapped himself in a loose robe of the colour he evidently favours, and lounges languidly.

« I do not suppose », Curufinwë says, nimbly closing the buttons of his clothes, « that there will be a repeat. However, it would be rude of me not to thank you for the diversion. »

Eöl breathes out in a way that could almost be a snort. « You are _so_ very welcome. »

« I wish that perhaps one day you will have your sword back. »

« If I ever choose to abandon Nan Elmoth, perhaps. It will not happen, and so Anglachel is lost to me. »

One last time, Curufinwë looks at him, at the sombre but beautiful countenance. « You say so », he answers, and in answering he feels that he speaks a doom. « But in my heart, I know – I shall meet you again. »

***

_Turco,_

_I am in Thargelion again. My journey to Návarot was not as fruitful as I had hoped, but I do bring back a cheese wheel. I shall break camp and return to the Pass speedily, and Moryo might follow suit; he wishes to come hunting soon – I spoke with the Moriquendë extensively in Návarot. I do not believe he shall trouble us for a long time to come._

_Greet Telperinquar._

_Curvo_

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, thanks everyone for reading!
> 
> To my recipient: I added this ship to my offers almost as an afterthought, then I saw it among your requests and my brain just went like, well now you gotta do it. I wish I'd had a lot more time to finish it, as there were more ideas I could have explored and I could have extended the story's timeline a little farther ahead, but time was what it was. I hope you enjoyed it, I definitely loved writing it and getting into Curufin's head for the journey. 
> 
> A final clarification for peeps: Angrist being made of galvorn is a headcanon, though I have a theory to support it. The rest is all lifted from canon (including Curufin speaking Khuzdul! but not how he learnt it or why he was given Angrist) in some way or other, which I clarify for the sole reason that I'm someone who reads stuff in fics and then doesn't know whether that's in the texts or not, which then launches me into mad searches across HoME volumes for stuff that doesn't actually exist lmao. (I sure hope it doesn't turn out to BE canon from some passage I forgot, in which case I'm so sorry.)
> 
> Okay, I'm done now. That was fun.


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